Devall's Angel (3 page)

“In the kitchen. I can have Paynes fetch him.”

“No. He will be more at ease if we go to him. What do you know about him?” He followed her downstairs and through the door leading down to the servants’ hall.

“Nothing, except that the bystanders claimed he is an orphan who moved into the neighborhood about a month ago. His name is Jimmy. Beyond that, he refuses to talk. I would estimate his age at around five, and it is obvious that he has not had enough food for some time.”

Hart shook his head. “It couldn’t be,” he murmured, but gasped when they entered the kitchen.

Jimmy sat at the table, still eating, his thin body so frail it was a wonder he was alive. Even heavy grime had not muted his blazing red hair, but washing now revealed a blanket of freckles covering nose and cheeks. His growing bruises revived Angela’s anger.

“Jimmy,” she murmured soothingly. “This is Lord Hartleigh. He has a house full of boys where you can stay.”

Fear coursed through the blue eyes.

Hart dropped onto a low stool, bringing his eyes to Jimmy’s level. “It’s not a flash house,” he assured the lad, pausing to examine his face more closely. “Is your name McFarrell?”

Angela gasped.

Jimmy finally nodded.

“I thought so.” Relief threaded the words. “Your brother Harry has been frantic about you.”

“You know ’Arry?” Tears sprang to his eyes.

“Yes, I know him.” Hart rested his large hand atop Jimmy’s small one. “A month ago I rescued him from a beating. He was unconscious for nearly a day, but his first words on awakening were to ask where you were. I’ve been looking for you ever since.”

“I was scared when ’Arry didn’t come ’ome,” he sobbed. “Then I ’eard ’bout a body nosin’ ’round, askin’ questions, so I ran.”

Hart pulled the boy into his arms, letting him cry out his fear and loneliness against the superfine wool of his jacket. “It’s all right, Jimmy. You needn’t ever live on the streets again. Harry is waiting for you at a house in the country. As soon as you recover your strength, I will see that you both go to school.”

“I can’t believe you know him,” said Angela, shaking her head. “Who is he?”

“The McFarrells were a poor but respectable family that fell on hard times,” he answered, still patting Jimmy’s back. “The father was a dock worker, but seven years ago – shortly after Jimmy’s birth – he suffered an injury that left him incapable of lifting heavy loads. Without employment, they had to move into two rooms on a mean street. He did odd jobs until he died two years later. The mother found work with a seamstress, though they had to give up one of their rooms. But her eyes steadily weakened until she was no longer able to sew. Ten-year-old Harry tried to provide for the family, but soon fell into the clutches of one of the more reprehensible thief-masters, and the pittance he was paid barely kept the family in food. Mrs. McFarrell died three months ago. Harry kept things going for a time, but his master was dissatisfied with the goods he brought in and set on him as an example to the other boys. That was when I found him. If only he had been conscious, I might have recovered Jimmy then. This month must have been brutal for him.”

“From his looks, he is near starvation.”

Hart nodded. “Come, Jimmy.” He swept the boy into his arms. “Let’s go home. You can sleep in a soft bed, and we’ll find you some clothes. Then tomorrow, I will take you to Harry.”

“Thank you, Hart.” She smiled damply.

Returning to the drawing room, Angela stared at the uninspired furnishings. Thief-masters and Almack’s patronesses. London contrasts were even starker than she had imagined.

The city had seemed magical when she had first spotted it in the distance, its skyline dotted with church spires and dominated by the dome of St. Paul’s and the bulk of Westminster Abbey. Yet her first close view was of mean streets, derelict buildings, and poorly dressed people. Disappointment had been settling over her when the streets suddenly widened into the opulent glory that was Mayfair.

Yet even here, contrasts were everywhere – well-dressed lords and ragged beggars, haughty matrons and cowering shop girls, nanny-tended children in the park and boys like Jimmy on the streets. Even her own class contained contrasts. Lisping fops minced about clad in outlandish costumes; formidable dandies wielded pretentious quizzing glasses; boisterous Corinthians endlessly relived the latest mill or race. They were joined by sober clubmen, starchy hostesses, pushy matchmakers, giggling girls fresh from the schoolroom…

Where did Angela Warren fit into this mosaic?

The emotional extremes were nearly as bad – terror over appearing at the Queen’s drawing room; relief when she survived the ordeal; mortification at Lady Forley’s insistence on vulgar extravagance; nervousness that tied her tongue in knots whenever the
ton’
s highest sticklers appeared; fear that she might say something to alienate them; anger at Jimmy’s treatment; painful sympathy for his story; trepidation about her upcoming ball… Where in this muddle was pleasure? Or even contentment? So far, her London Season bore no resemblance to the glittering tales Lady Forley had spun since Lord Forley’s death.

Blackthorn’s face again hovered before her own. Now there was a man who wasted no time agonizing over what society thought. How much simpler life was for gentlemen. They could break any number of rules and still be welcomed at their clubs. Ladies did not have that freedom. Only through rigid compliance to every expectation could she expect to find a husband during her brief stay in town. Failure was unthinkable – and not only because she was losing her place at the Court. Andrew had made many sacrifices to provide this opportunity for her. How could she waste it?

I must marry!

She sighed. Conformity must become her watchword. Society’s matrons had already made that clear. They had watched her like hawks when she first entered their drawing rooms, relaxing only when she proved to be quiet and deferential. But their attention was never far away. Any mistake could ruin her.

It would be difficult. She had so many faults – an unladylike education, questionable manners, an unfashionable concern for the lower classes. Revealing any of them would lead to failure.

Again she sighed. Why couldn’t she just be herself?

Chapter Two

Dear Lord! This will be a disaster!

Angela stood in the receiving line, a false smile pasted firmly on her face. What was she doing here? Her mother was right that sharing a ball would harm her. She was an interloper, a mushroom, an upstart who did not belong in this illustrious company.

When Sylvia had offered to share her come-out ball, their difference in station hadn’t seemed to matter. After all, they were only one rank apart, and Sylvia was happily marrying down. By the time Angela met society for herself, it was too late to change the plans.

Why had she never realized the enormous gap that separated the upper and lower aristocracy? It was a difference she would have learned at school had she attended one. But beyond even that natural separation, Lord Hartleigh’s credit was high, guaranteeing that the ball would be a squeeze. Not that it would do her any good. The friends of a wealthy, powerful earl would hardly be interested in the barely dowered bluestocking sister of a viscount. And how could she become acquainted with anyone in this frenzied atmosphere?

“You will be ruined,” Lady Forley had moaned as their carriage approached Hartleigh House. “How can we hold our heads up after making a public admission of penury by bringing you out as an afterthought to someone else’s ball? We might as well place an ad in the
Times
announcing that you are unmarriageable.”

“Hardly.” Angela had still been insisting that all would be well. Admitting her own fears would make it impossible to survive the evening. “Sylvia and I will be sisters in only two months. Cassie sees nothing wrong with it.”

“How would she know? She’s hardly older than you, with no experience in entertaining. She shouldn’t even be here. Appearing in public when she is increasing is outside enough!” The ubiquitous vinaigrette waved beneath her nose.

Angela bit back a sigh at the memory and smiled at the latest arrival. It was too late to rectify any mistakes. If only her mother had kept quiet just this once! That diatribe had done little to settle nerves already stretched to the breaking point.

For six years Angela had listened to tales about the magic of the London Season – the parties, the people, the clothes and jewels, the sparkling conversation. All exaggerated.

London intimidated her in ways she had never experienced at home. There, she entertained the neighbors with confidence. Whatever duties she had faced – and they were many, for Lady Forley refused to run the house or see after the tenants, devoting her time to endless complaints over her absence from London – she had handled with calm confidence.

Yet here she could never relax, especially around the Almack’s patronesses and gossips like Lady Beatrice. The sparkling conversation was only endless repetition of the latest scandals interspersed with acid condemnation of anyone not present. The other girls were giddy, giggling pea-brains interested only in clothes and flirtation. Angela had nothing in common with them. How could she relate to people who accepted social facades as reality, dreamt only of jewels and gowns, and uttered nothing but regurgitated
on-dits?
They ignored her, content with the friendships they had formed at schools she had never attended.

The gentlemen were worse. Corinthians. Dandies. Fops. All were alien beings in their formal clothes and impeccable manners, intimidating her with their self-possession while flustering her with insincere compliments and meaningless flirtation. Framing a reply that did not sound hopelessly conceited was impossible.

“Lord Atwater,” she murmured as that gentleman was introduced. “So nice of you to come.” She had discovered that if she avoided looking into people’s faces, she could utter greetings without stammering.

“At last, a beauty worthy of notice,” he said warmly, touching his lips to her gloved hand. “Your face is a blazing light shining into the darkest corners. Such exquisite loveliness casts all others into shadow.” His words were so pat on her thoughts that she nearly choked. Tongue-tied, she ignored him and turned to the next arrival.

London was not her milieu
.
She hated its shallowness and the way intelligent people changed when they entered its portals. Even Hart and Andrew sounded brainless here, though both were reasonable men. And that disturbed her. If everyone donned masks in public, how was she to see past the surface? Unlike most girls, she did not view marriage as either a duty or a business arrangement. She wanted a partnership with her husband. And friendship. Love was unlikely, of course – she banished a spurt of envy for the love Andrew and Sylvia shared – but she could not compromise beyond friendship. Yet discovering a kindred spirit meant she had to know the real character of any suitors.

Her mother’s jostling reminded her that she was supposed to greet all arrivals. “Mr. Garwood.”

If only she could set aside her fears and doubts – at least for tonight. She had been wrong to think that anyone attending Hart’s illustrious gathering would be interested in her. Yet even that realization failed to relax her, for new fears now joined the old. She had not previously grasped the size of the
ton
. Hundreds of people already thronged the ballroom, with more arriving every minute. Not all were eligible gentlemen, of course, though dozens might be. And dozens more would skip this ball. How could she find the best one for her in only two months?

“Mr. Brummell.” Her voice quavered, her composure threatening to disintegrate as the dandy made his way along the receiving line. He was another who terrified her. The dark jacket he had popularized set off his coloring to perfection. As usual, his dreaded quizzing glass hung close to hand. Lady Forley had already overwhelmed her with warnings of what his approval would mean.

He can make or break your Season with a single lift of his brow, she had moaned yet again as their carriage pulled up to Hartleigh House. You must make a good impression. He sets fashion, so his regard is vital. Flatter him. Amuse him. Flirt if you can manage it – though why you are so inept at such an essential skill I will never know. Do you want to fail?

Angela shuddered now as he looked her up and down. At least her clothes were all right. Once Jeanette had delivered the ball gown, even Lady Forley had ceased harping about patronizing such an inexpensive modiste. But who knew how Brummell would react?

At close quarters, he was daunting, his legendary disdain obvious in the eyes she forced herself to meet. Somehow she managed an exchange of comments, though she had no idea what she said. But it must have been all right, for he actually smiled before sauntering toward the ballroom. Her shoulders sagged in relief. With luck she need never speak to him again. He didn’t dance.

Encountering the Beau and his ilk was yet another aspect of sharing this ball that she had not considered until it was too late. Hart was a powerful figure in both social and government circles. Thus his guest list encompassed the highest in the land – every Almack’s patroness; most dukes and marquesses; the heir to nearly every title in the upper aristocracy; many government leaders. And the Prince Regent.

Her knees tried to buckle.
Pull yourself together!
Somehow she responded to Lady Jersey without making a cake of herself. How did other girls cope with the stress? Or did they enjoy socializing so much that they suffered no stress?

Few of them shared her problems. At two-and-twenty, she was much older than other new arrivals. Cassie had often sworn that age would give her the poise to enjoy the Season.

Hah!

All it gave her was the experience to know how many disasters lurked in the wings. The constant fear sapped her vitality, leaving her aloof and utterly colorless, reducing her chances of success. God knew she didn’t expect to be called a diamond, but acquiring a reputation for insipidity boded ill for the future.